


if the dark returns

by impossiblewanderings



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Durin Feels, Family Feels, Five times Bofur has this 'restore the memories of your lost companions' thing down to a fine art, I am such a bad person, a gift fic I procrastinated on for LITERALLY A YEAR, all the feels, and the one time he didn't
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 09:22:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2383139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblewanderings/pseuds/impossiblewanderings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brannon hesitates a moment, wondering why this day out of all the hundreds of perfectly ordinary rainy London days should be the day. Then his friend startles him by looking him, for the first time in their long acquaintance, directly in the eye. They are terrifyingly blue up close, like the sky before a mad summer storm, that defiant aching blue the sky paints before surrendering to the rain.</p>
<p>"Hello, Bofur."</p>
            </blockquote>





	if the dark returns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ajir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajir/gifts).



 

_And if the night is burning_   
_I will cover my eyes_   
_For if the dark returns_   
_Then my brothers will die ..."_

(I See Fire, Ed Sheeran)

* * *

It starts out as an ordinary day.

Brannon is walking to his job in Seven Dials, sucking in the rain-scented London air, trying to put an extra spring in his dogged steps. A wicked shaft of sunlight bounces from a puddle at his feet directly into his brain, and he winces, splays his fingers against the wall and pretends he doesn't feel the deep ring of the stone. It was a fine drinking night last night, but as always a terrible morning afterwards.

He sometimes thinks that normal people don't drink three packs of beer a night, but those people probably have normal, dull-edged dreams, without fire or monsters or blood coating his arms, and the face. The face is the worst of it, because he doesn't understand why the face should make him so sad. It seems a kind face, if a little anxious and lined around the edges, with splendid curls and eyes that could be merry in the right circumstances. When he sees the face, Brannon knows that he will soon wake, tears drying on his cheeks.

He feels as though he should recognise the face, as though it is the most important thing in the world, but when he wakes the urge to  _remember, damn you_  subsides to an ache he can ignore for the most part.

Brannon stops to buy his coffee, black with three sugars, and another for his friend, who takes it black with nothing sweet at all. He always offers to bring milk, or sugar, or even caramel sauce as it's no bother, but his friend just laughs and shakes his shaggy head, and takes the coffee with a twinkle of his bright blue eyes.

His friend is waiting, as he always is, in the little alley by the Cambridge Theatre. He looks mostly like a bundle of grey rags and hair and beard, and he can be hard to spot in the shadows, but today he is waiting square in the middle of the little street, kicking at the cobbles with his worn brown boots.

"Good morning!" Brannon calls. "Is today the day then?"

It's become an old ritual between them, where Brannon asks and his friend shakes his head slowly, with a mischievous smile lurking under his moustache, and says, "Oh no, not today. You aren't ready today."

Brannon hands over the coffee, and the old man laughs, a sharp amused cackle.

"Why not today? Yes, my friend, this is the day."

Brannon hesitates a moment, wondering why this day out of all the hundreds of perfectly ordinary rainy London days should be _the_ day. Then his friend startles him by looking him, for the first time in their long acquaintance, directly in the eye. They are terrifyingly blue up close, like the sky before a mad summer storm, that defiant aching blue the sky paints before surrendering to the rain.

"Hello, Bofur."

His friend is smiling and the street bucks beneath his feet. Brannon's coffee goes flying and his fingers go numb and his fingernails bury themselves into his scalp as he tries to tear the agony from him, it hurts he's _dying_ and his friend half-catches him and lays him down on the filthy street and looks very grave as he touches a finger to Brannon's burning skull as though he can sense him being split apart-

and it _burns_ -

and he can't _see_ -

 _Gandalf_ -

and there's a patch of blue in the sky-

and the _face_ -

and he-

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my sweet Ajir/lateforerebor, here is the first part of your first gift fic, for which I PROCRASTINATED FOR A FUCKING YEAR OMG WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME. The first part of your OTHER gift fic shall be up momentarily. <3


End file.
